


fury like a basilisk scorned

by sujing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Crack, Foiled Confessions, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Harry Potter Can't Dance and That's Okay, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Multiple, Rivalry, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), because who needs to know how to dance? not harry potter, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-23 22:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18157895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sujing/pseuds/sujing
Summary: Tom and Harry are rivals—nothing more, nothing less. Tom's only motivation in trying to provoke Harry into asking him to go with Harry to the Yule Ball is to humiliate him. And who else but his greatest rival would be deserving of the honour?If he genuinely enjoys the experience, that's just a sweet bonus.Too bad Harry picks then to lose every ounce of his Gryffindor courage, thwarting Tom's plans once again.





	fury like a basilisk scorned

**Author's Note:**

> I had a need for something silly involving Tom and the basilisk, so here we are.  
> #tooattachedtomaincastsoharryandcoareheretoo
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> — sujing
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.

“You’re bloody _insane_ , Riddle,” Draco exclaimed, frantically wringing his hands as he followed the Prefect in question. “This will reflect badly on our whole house—Slytherin will lose the House Cup for sure—you’ll be expelled!”

“No, no,” Riddle said calmly, looking poised and entirely unaware of the magnitude of what he was about to unleash on the school. “They’ll _love_ her. And besides,” he added, “there aren’t any rules explicitly against bringing her, as long as no one is harmed.”

Oh, Merlin. Let it be known that Draco Malfoy, honourable Head Boy of his year (never mind that he was practically a puppet ruler under Riddle’s thumb, all pretty titles and no bite), _had_ tried to stop Tom Riddle, Slytherin’s definitely-very-responsible-and-concerned-about-student-safety Prefect, on this evening. Unfortunately for Draco (and the rest of the school, bless them), whenever Riddle started on the warpath, he was like a rampaging bull, impossible to deter (misdirection only lasted so long and usually resulted in a further enraged Riddle), and with tunnel vision rivalling a horse in blinders.

“Come on,” Riddle said, his words like sweet honey. “I’ll be right behind you.” Riddle gestured towards a passageway previously hidden behind a portrait, now revealed with a quick hiss of his voice: an ominous, gaping maw adorned complete with fang-like sculptures around the entrance.

As usual, Riddle’s object—or rather, _person_ —of focus was none other than Harry Potter, Gryffindor golden boy extraordinaire.

Their rivalry was the stuff of legends. Draco’s own rivalry with Gryffindor’s Seeker and Quidditch Captain paled in comparison, looking like some comedic troupe’s modern interpretation of the traditional cat and mouse.

Draco gulped, reluctance etched into every facet of his expression, but obliged, ducking his head cautiously as he stepped in. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he mumbled, not looking back towards Riddle. “You _can_ control it—right? _Right?_ ” Draco asked, voice edging on hysterics even as he continued forward.

No, Riddle and Potter were not locked in a silly cat-and-mouse game, despite what so much of the pitifully starry-eyed school population seemed to believe. They were engaged in an arms race of epic proportions, their battlefield a combination of grades, the adoration of the professors, and their cheering sheeple. They had knights among the students, Heads of House as rooks and bishops, and the Headmaster for a queen. _Whose?_ That remained to be seen.

Weapons were built, aimed, and all but fired—all in the name of defence by pre-emption.

And to think that only a week ago, he’d overheard Pansy and Daphne whispering excitedly about rumours that Riddle had ‘finally’ asked Potter out for the upcoming Yule Ball.

He’d known even then, with a sense of all-encompassing dread, that if those rumours held any truth, nothing good could come of it, least of all to him.

“Of course,” Riddle said from behind him, oozing confidence. “You don’t have to worry at all—in fact, I’ve made sure that she’s _very_ well-fed for the occasion.” The portrait swung shut with a click, and then the only light was emitted from the ends of their wands.

Draco definitely didn’t need the image of a fucking _Basilisk_ gorging itself on who-knows-what. He could see it vividly, his imagination running wild with nerves: blood and gore and venom dripping from perfectly pointed teeth.

“We’re here,” Riddle said, bringing Draco to a halt as his voice sounded forward into a faint echo. Draco paused, looking back as if unsure, as if they had not already come too far to back down—and then stumbled, awkwardly, as he entered the damp cavern.

He felt absurdly alone in that moment, despite all of Hogwarts’ great population somewhere above him, despite Riddle’s presence—if he could be called company.

In a way, he _was_ alone. Only Draco knew, aside from Potter himself, and perhaps Granger (he still refused to call her Hermione, even after two years of tentative truce while he’d been acting as Riddle’s go-between when Riddle couldn’t be bothered with Prefect duties), what a petty, vengeful menace Tom Riddle truly was. Weasley might have heard some of the stories second-hand, but that conveyed none of the horror that was dealing with him on a daily basis. Granger had said that Weasley had initially felt disappointed at not being chosen for Prefect, even though it'd been his friend that had been chosen over him, only to later feel relieved that he didn’t need to bear the responsibility that came with the position. Draco considered him lucky.

Draco watched, forcing his eyes to stay open against all instinct, as Riddle stepped ahead of him and spoke a string of unintelligible hisses. In the encroaching dark, something large stirred, disturbing what sounded like collected water on stone ground.

Draco stiffened with fearful anticipation as the sound neared and a great big pair of yellow eyes rounded the corner, reflecting light more brilliantly than should have been possible.

_He wasn’t dead. By all means, eye-contact with a Basilisk should’ve—_

Riddle turned back towards Draco again, nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just summoned a centuries-old Basilisk from the depths of the school—as if he hadn’t just summoned _Slytherin’s monster_ , designed specially for slaughter.

But of course _Riddle_ would be unfazed.

“Draco,” Riddle said, smiling widely (too widely), “meet Basil.”

* * *

Severus rapped the blackboard impatiently as he stood facing his NEWT-level Defence class. “I expect you have all completed your assigned pre-reading on hand movement-based spell chaining _before_ ,”—he shot a withering glare at a student who was clearly hiding a textbook under the desk, causing them to startle and slam it closed—“coming to class. Today’s lesson will be practical, and, as usual, I have set up the classroom to accommodate several concurrent one-on-one duels. Now, break into pairs, all of you—Potter, with Riddle.”

As much as he would like to see that destructive pair separated, doing so would only cause _more_ trouble. No one else in the class could match up to them, so any other arrangement was doomed to fail—the first and last time he’d tried to split them apart, they’d swiftly sent their respective partners to the Hospital Wing. He couldn’t even prove that they were at fault—they’d insisted that they’d only mistakenly overpowered their spells, being used to duelling each other. Suffice to say, it was not within Severus’s personality to incite trouble that could be avoided, and so, they remained partnered, which, despite their constant quarrels, both obviously preferred.

Only one term and one day until they graduated and were out of his hair for good. Severus barely restrained himself from counting down the minutes and hours.

He watched impassively as Riddle fired an impressive sequence of nonverbal spells at his opponent before Potter returned a series of his own just as aggressively.

Severus would’ve liked to ignore them, to tune them out entirely in the din of spells being fired, but as usual, the pair possessed a sort of gravity that sucked in the attention of everyone nearby.

“You know, Harry,” he heard Riddle say without pausing in the duel, “the holidays start tomorrow, and Christmas is only a week away.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, likely expecting a distraction—it wouldn’t be the first time they’d taken advantage of nonverbal spell casting to taunt each other. “And?”

“Have you found anyone to go to the Yule Ball with?” Riddle asked innocently.

Potter didn’t answer. “Why? Haven’t you?”

“Mm, I don’t know,” Riddle said, “I was only thinking that if my _friend_ ,” he emphasised, “didn’t have a partner—was in need—that I would _graciously_ offer myself—”

“Wait—hold on—are you _asking me out?_  ” Potter interrupted incredulously, but without misstepping.

“Oh no, I merely wouldn’t want you to have to go alone. I don’t believe you have a partner yet—I’m sure I would have heard—?” Riddle said, charm output set to max.

“Thanks, but you’re mistaken,” Potter said, the barest flutter of uncertainty audible in his voice. “I _do_  have a partner, and it's not you.”

Surprise flickered across Riddle’s face as he was tagged with Potter’s signature Disarming Charm in his momentary lapse of attention, sending his wand clattering to the floor.

Well, if that wasn’t an interesting interaction. Severus could already see other students listening in and whispering inane gossip among themselves.

Only one term to go.

* * *

 “—and then he just sort of said that if I didn’t have a partner already, he would be willing to go with me, or something like that.”

“And then?” Hermione prompted.

“I... I panicked and told him I was going with someone else already,” Harry admitted, hiding his face in his hands shamefully.

"Oh, _Harry!_ " Hermione cried, scandalised. “You simply _must_ explain to him. I’m sure Tom was only too embarrassed to ask directly—you know how boys can be—”

“No way, mate,” Ron interrupted, looking at Harry with alarm. “You’ll never live it down if he finds out you lied about having a date. You have to find someone else to go with.”

“I, yeah,” Harry said nervously, “that’s what I was thinking, actually, but I don’t know if I can.”

“You'll be fine, Harry. There's bound to be someone who still needs a partner besides Riddle! Who wouldn't want to go with Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain?" Ron said, elbowing Harry playfully.

"Malfoy wouldn't," Harry groaned. 

“Yes, just go with someone else who’s also _put it off to the last minute_ ,” Hermione said in disapproval. “And Ron,” she said, giving him a pointed look, “can’t you see further compounding the issue isn’t going to help? Besides, Harry, I thought you _wanted_ to go with Tom!”

“Um,” Harry said dumbly. “Well. Maybe next time. Hermione, who are _you_ going with?”

“Harry—” Hermione started, trying to stop him from changing the topic.

“Wait, good point,” Ron said, a grin blooming on his face. “How haven’t we asked yet? Hermione, who _are_ you going with?”

“I—” Hermione stuttered, flushing pink at the sudden focus on her. “It’s a surprise!”

* * *

Horace was nursing a glass of mead when Tom entered the ballroom with Draco trailing behind.

Or rather, Tom _rode in on a fifty-foot Basilisk_ like some unholy knight in shining silver armour-robes while his page hurried behind him, looking understandably alarmed by the turn of events. Tom sat on his mount, head high and imperious, while Draco’s wand was raised, shooting miniature silver-and-green serpentine fireworks into the air in declaration of Tom’s arrival.

It wasn’t a costume party, but somehow, it worked. Horace wouldn't have expected any less. That was just the bearing Tom Riddle had.

Across the hall, Harry Potter stood, gaping like a fish. At his side, Myrtle Warren clutched his arm closely, giggling at the sight. Nearby, Hermione Granger squeaked, expression stuck somewhere between begrudgingly impressed and righteously indignant at the destruction of school property.

Salazar, the house elves were going to have a field day feeding that monster.

Horace watched in astonishment as Tom cast the Amplifying Charm on himself and spoke.

“ _I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you._ [1]”

* * *

Harry looked on in undisguised horror as Tom burst through the entrance, knocking the double-doors clean off their hinges and splintering the wood into pieces.

It just wasn't _fair!_ Where had Tom gotten his hands on a _Basilisk?_ _Surely_ that could not be legal?

And yet, Harry knew, of all people, _Tom_ would be able to find a loophole; some way of taking no blame in the matter. He alone could puppeteer the responsibility onto someone else entirely, blaming the school administration for overlooking the smuggling of a XXXXX creature into their walls.

He felt thoroughly one-upped. Outdone. Outshone. He couldn't have that, couldn't lose to Tom, not when losing could very well mean losing Tom's interest—

Barely registering Tom's voice broadcasting through the hall (no doubt he'd prepared yet _another_ of his overwritten speeches Harry had no desire to hear) Harry pushed Myrtle aside, who by now had doubled over with laughter.

By the time Harry pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, Tom had stopped speaking and was instead engaged in what looked like a hissing argument with his Basilisk. He was right up in its left eye—facing it as much as he could with his significantly smaller size—looking indignant and so much like a bird with its feathers ruffled the wrong way.

It was rather endearing.

* * *

Snakes, Tom thought, could be so blooming thick and simple-minded sometimes. Really— _apologise_ to _Harry?_  As if he'd done something wrong?

So what if he'd implied that Harry couldn't get a date himself, or was too cowardly to ask? That had hardly been his intention. He'd only meant to give Harry an out, and, if his pride allowed him to admit it, an out for himself as well.

How else were the two greatest rivals of Hogwarts since the Founders meant to come to such a truce, no matter how temporary?

"Tom," Harry said, approaching with the sacred flame of competition burning in his eyes.

"Harry, dear," he acknowledged. "You didn't hear a word of my speech, did you?" he asked, but he already knew the answer.

Harry smiled. "Nope."

And then all hell broke loose.

* * *

In the end, it couldn't be said that either side—Potter's or Riddle's—had won or lost. Nevertheless, among the wreckage that remained of the once beautiful and wintry Yule décor were scattered thoroughly-pranked students exhilarated and short of breath. All night, they had been chased around by the friendly (!!!) school Basilisk and transfigured into various creatures by wares courtesy of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, who just happened to have an investor present.

At the centre of the Great Hall was a certain pair of rivals whose stories would be told for generations to come. They lay there, giddy with exertion, hand-in-hand in a mound of confetti and streamers, differences set aside, apologies spoken through action.

* * *

_"Will there be a 'next time'?"_

_"As long as you wish it."_

* * *

And so, a prophecy remained on its shelf in the depths of the Ministry, unheard and unfulfilled like countless others of its kind. 

The Headmaster, twinkling blue eyes full of pride, simply observed as another life's Dark Lord was vanquished before his birth. His work was already done.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Quoted directly from Voldemort in DH33: "The Prince's Tale".
> 
> ~~~
> 
> I absolutely adore Tomarry/Harrymort (just look at my bookmarks LOL), but I have difficulty writing anything remotely romantic (♫ what is looove ♫), so I hope this doesn't come across as awkward or forced :')


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